


The Art of Fireplace Maintenance

by kingthezeke



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Attempt at Humor, First Love, M/M, Male Cinderella
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:25:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8790604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingthezeke/pseuds/kingthezeke
Summary: A comical, cheesy, and romantic rendition of Cinderella, in which Alex is a housemaid who dreams of running away with his Prince Charming. His dreams could come true, because the handsome and renowned Prince John is looking for a spouse. Alex has an opportunity to attend the ball, but he must outwit his evil stepbrothers, Thomas and James and make it home before midnight.or,Alex does dumb shit (part 3) and tries to keep up with himself courtesy of his best friend, George (a mouse), Hercules (his tailor), and Lafayette (his fairy god father).





	

He is far from graceful. He isn’t polite, the way his brethren are. He’s vulgar and bellicose, but he scrubs floors all day and tends to the animals and the garden. He can’t dance, because he’s clumsy and too easily excited. His face and person are as much as the populace would allow handsome. His delicate hands have gone rough and calloused from his daily chores, but he spends his nights reading and writing by candlelight. It was one of the few things his mother taught him before her affliction snuffed her out, and left only faint memories and songs floating around in Cinderalex’s head. 

What a name.

Cinderalex.

He’d been reduced to _Cinderalex_ by his step brothers, Thomas and James, although he’d formally acquainted them as Evil Stepbrother No. 1 and Evil Stepbrother No. 2 in his mind when they ridiculed him. Before his mother’s death, she’d actually named him Alexander. Along with this, she remarried the Duke of Yorktown, who so happened to have two sons his own age. Alex was loud and passionate. His mother taught him to speak his mind and to mark his own path. He wasn’t polished and refined the way the Duke’s sons were. They sat with their legs crossed, and only spoke when spoken to. They kept their breeches pressed and their socks ironed (well, that was more of Evil Stepbrother No. 2) but Alex was a wild child. He threw tantrums and bickered and pulled hair and rarely stayed still. So, rather quickly, the boys took advantage of Alex’s mother’s death, and made sure to discipline him.

That was years ago.

Now, he peels potatoes, mops the floor, serves the tea, cleans the horses, polishes the silver, makes the soup, dusts the glass, and prepares the men for their evenings out. He doesn’t clean when they’re gone, though. Alex rarely does. He sits by the hearth in his room, and reads the fairytales of when dainty little princesses run off with knights in shining armor. Currently, he’s working on his own story, about a young man and a prince who fall in love. It has consumed his passions, and he daydreams about it as he scrubs the bathrooms, ceiling to floor. He has yet to write it down.

“Cinderalex,” he hears the eldest, James, call. “Iron my socks. I have a scheduled luncheon with a maiden at noon.”

He’s distracted from his daydream long enough to have reality flood back. He tells and retells the story in his head. It starts out the way most fairytales do. _Once upon a time, there was a lonely boy, who spent his days as a housemaid._

Suddenly there’s crashing, and the sound of pans and glass hitting the floor, shattering and curses shouted from the kitchen.

“Cinderalex!” Thomas roars.

He hurries off to see what’s happened, and is greeted with a furious Thomas, sprawled on the kitchen floor, breeches dampened, staring at the ceiling. He tries to hide his amusement, and watches the tyrant scramble to his feet, still slipping on the wet floor. His legs wobble like a newborn calf, and he clutches the counter as he pulls himself up.

“You find this amusing?” He growls, glaring up at the maid.

“Sir,” Cinderalex begins, a frown flushing his features. “I would not have left the floor in the state that you’ve found it. Were it not for Master James’ urgent orders to scrub the toilets, I may have found the opportunity to finish it.”

“Master James is but an idiot, with a gallon of molasses for a head,” Thomas seethes, getting to his feet. “You’ve left the floor soaking wet, and I’ve found ailment where your competency fell short. Are you yet stupid, Cinderalex? Must I remind you where the mops lie?”

“No, sir, you need not.” He feels the anger boiling in his chest, but his mouth will not remain shut. “Perhaps this minor inconvenience is divine providence in a way your narrow mind couldn’t possibly understand.” His eyes fall to the soapy water, and float back up to Thomas. “Perhaps it was thought, by some sadistic god, that a bath was long overdue.”

“Tread lightly,” Thomas’ eyes flash dangerously. “Father and I have been meaning to discuss finances. You see,” he begins, “The supply and demand for maids is increasing annually. Your pretty face is worth a lot more than a few gold coins, Cinderalex. The gentlemen down the way have been offering quite a fortune for you. Master James and I would not mind a hearty monthly payment for your esteemed _services_.”

Feeling either rage or sudden terror, the maid’s eyes fall to the floor. He need not be reminded that he is a pawn to the Duke. Though they’ve never followed through with the threat, Alex doesn’t feel the need to push it to that point. The gentlemen down the way are not gentlemen, at all. He’s seen their big, ugly hands and their scruffy beards. They’re huge, loud men whose money is almost as dirty as their souls.

With the lack of a reply, Thomas carefully stalks off, tearing the quaint cool grey waistcoat from his body and flinging it onto the floor, hollering for Alex to pick up after him.

Thomas is a vain man. His suits are always the finest velvet, and his smile is always one of saccharine charm. He spends his nights and days in the looking-glass, primping and preening, spinning around in his Wellingtons and D’orsay hats, perched atop his hair.

“My socks,” James says, from the dining room.

And James. James is malicious and insulting, even more than Thomas in his fury. He doesn’t often talk much; he is rather cold and detached. His dispassion and monotonous voice only adds to his malice.

Upon steaming James’ socks, drying the kitchen floor, finishing the bathroom, and cleaning where Thomas fell, Cinderalex finds himself sitting outside, by the barn. He’s stroking the mane of a stallion, and hears a tap on the side of the barn. It’s rhythmic tapping, one that grabs his attention, and he knows who it is, without looking up.

“George? Have you come to remind me of my place, as well?”

There’s a chuckle around the corner of the red wood, and a very familiar man dressed in brown wool peaks out at him, handsome face beaming. “Alexander, the only place I come to remind you of is the one you hold in my ever loyal heart.” He sniffs the air and his smile falls into one of pity. “Have they reduced you to the harshest cleaning today, good sir?”

“Their cruelty is in their nature,” Alex frowns, continuing to brush the white mane. “I am not bothered so much by my brothers; I have since grown tolerant to their indecency and it does not faze me. But instead I find discomfort in my story, George.”

“Story?” the neighbor asks curiously. “Your fairytale, you mean?”

“Well,” Alex says simply, “I always read stories in which a helpless princess is rescued by a glorious knight, with all the masculinity in the world. I’ve heard stories of him slaying dragons and fighting in battles and dressing in the finest robes.”

George nods, and leans on the barn casually. “What bothers you?” George is very well aware of Alex’s fairytale in his head—the one he hopes to write someday.

He puts down the brush, and gently strokes the horse’s nose as he walks the young stallion back into his stall. George follows him in, sweeping. Alex takes time to find his words, and finally says, “Were a young prince to come and rescue me, I would not want him hardened by battle or calloused from years of swordsmanship. I would want him to be tender with me, and gentle. I would not want my lover to be a tyrant of war, but a poet. An artist. A delicate young man, with a heart of gold. And sparkling eyes, like a thousand diamonds in the sea.”

“You must marry a dead man, Alexander,” George responds idly. “All of the poets are gone. This generation seeks nothing but bloodshed.”

He sighs. “Alas, here I am. I talk of a lover, whom would love me dearly, but I may as well die here, talking to you.”

George’s thick eyebrows knot. “I did not assume to be as dull as you’re describing. Am I truly this boring?”

Alex laughs loudly, but stops himself, lest James or Thomas hear him and spoil his fun. He turns back to George, and with bright eyes, says, “You silly old fool. I meant _here_ on this estate, serving Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.” His smile fades to a sigh of a daydream. He rests against the stall on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. George moves to sit beside him, and Alex slumps over on George’s broad shoulder. “I don’t want to be Cinderalex for the rest of my life, George. But there was something else that bothered me.”

“Hm?” George hums, and Alex can’t tell if the man is falling asleep or not, but he continues anyway.

“The princesses are always dainty and in distress and unable to fend for themselves. They are pristine sweethearts with porcelain skin—I am none of those things.” And it’s true. Alex has not been humbled at all by his stature. His tongue is as sharp as it’s ever been, and his grace has yet to be found. His tan skin glistens in the sun, from years of having been reduced to farm work.

“You are the most beautiful man I have yet seen, Alexander.”

Before there is any time for a response, hollow faint knocking is heard outside of the barn, and Alex sits up, along with George. It’s the rattling tin can on the lacquered doors of the Jefferson estate, and a furious Thomas answers it, growling,

“Is there something I can help you with?” And after a glance down, he turns his nose up in disdain.

“Bread, _s’il vous plait_. I am but a hungry beggar, in desperate need of food and water.” Swaddled in old, worn wool, the hunched up man with a tin cup stands before the enraged stepbrother, innocently asking, “I have not eaten in days, sir. Would you be so kind…?”

“Panhandler!” Thomas shouts, “Away from here!” and James joins him at the door, saying,

“You would like our bread, and yet have not worked for your own?”

“I cannot work, sir,” the beggar pleads through a thick French accent. “My age numbs my bones and cripples me ineffably. If you would not give me bread, would you at least give me the means of purchasing it myself?”

“You old fool!” Thomas ridicules. “Do you know who we are?”

“Forgive me for saying, but I am not accustomed to this land.”

It’s James turn to speak, and Alex watches in horror as he steps before the poor old man. “Leave this property, you scum. We cannot have you killing our beautiful grass by which your ugly feet tread. Drunkards like you are the downfall of this great country, now leave or I shall beat you over your head with your very mug!”

The door slams, and the broken old man stands in quiet shock. Alex approaches slowly, asking,

“Are you alright?” The beggar’s condition is terrible, and he smells of manure. “Do not mind those two. They’re horrible in every single possible aspect.”

The beggar turns to him, eyes weary and tired. “Who are you?”

“Cinderalex.”

“Ha! What a name!”

Ignoring this, the boy asks, “And what’s your name?”

“Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette,” he says with an air of confidence.

“Well,” Alex continues. “I have a ration by which they feed me. I get one loaf of bread for the month and a sack of oats. I have but a half of that loaf left, but you are certainly welcome to have it.”

The beggar looks taken aback. “You are their brother, are you not?”

“I am, but not of equal status. I am a maidservant,” and he gestures to his pinafore. “Cinderalexander Hamilton.”

“Do they not treat you as brethren?”

“I am treated like cattle,” Alex blushes with shame.

“What a cruel fate!” Thoughtfully, the beggar replies, “Perhaps the gods will reward you.”

“Pardon?” Alex asks, and he sees the beggar’s face brighten. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Soon, you will. Ta-ta!” And with that, he begins moseying back up to the street, humming to himself.

“Wait!” Alex calls. “Don’t you want your bread?”

George emerges from the barn, and watches the spectacle warmly. Perhaps the gods _will_ reward him. But for now, he must return to his daily chores, cataloging that encounter as the beginning of something. Alex doesn’t know what, yet. But certainly something wonderful.

 

**Author's Note:**

> xox


End file.
